


heureux, heureux à en mourir

by giucorreias



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bruce Banner-centric, Hanahaki AU, M/M, melancholic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-03 00:20:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15807504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giucorreias/pseuds/giucorreias
Summary: when he looks at his hand there’s a single, bloodied rose petal on it





	heureux, heureux à en mourir

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the minilipa, a thematic challenge with a 999 long word limit. In this case, my theme was pink; now, i stumbled upon the Hanahaki Disease trope recently, and just fell in love with the idea of it, because it's sad, pretty and poetic, which was my objective with this fic.
> 
> What you need to know in order to understand the story: when someone suffers of unrequited love, flowers start to bloom on their lungs. They grow until it becomes hard to breathe, and eventually the person chokes to death. The flowers can be surgically removed, but then the love the person feels disappears. If you wish to know more about it, there's a [page on the fanlore wiki](https://fanlore.org/wiki/Hanahaki_Disease) dedicated to this!
> 
> The title comes from the song "la vie en rose", and it means something along the lines of "happy, happy until i die". It's such a great song, particularly in the voice of the amazing Edith Piaf. The song has happy lyrics which have nothing to do with the fic, but oh well.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you like it!

The first is a surprise: Tony’s explaining his newest engineering miracle, hands moving wildly, when Bruce feels something warm lodge itself on his chest. At first it’s there and gone like nothing, but then Tony slings his arm around Bruce’s shoulders and walks him to one of the displays, eyes shining with childlike excitement.

Bruce coughs once, twice, and when he looks at his hand there’s a single, bloodied rose petal on it.

 

* * *

  

From then on, it becomes a mild inconvenience: he’ll wake up to wrinkled, pink petals on his pillowcase, or cough them up after Tony falls asleep with his cheek against Bruce’s shoulder. He’ll taste them with his tea, in the morning, as Tony saunters into the kitchen like a zombie after an all nighter.

Bruce hides as well as he can: he suppresses his coughing fits whenever he’s around the others, throat burning with effort. He flushes the petals down the drain, so that no one stumbles upon them by accident. He buys pink roses to adorn his room and hangs them everywhere, so he has an acceptable excuse.

He doesn’t want anyone to look at him with pity, he doesn’t think there’s anything to pity him for. For the first time in a long while, Bruce’s _happy_ (he’d never have fallen in love otherwise).

 

* * *

  

Natasha figures it out first, which isn’t exactly a surprise. Out of them all, she’s the most perceptive. It happens like this: Tony’s left the room not two seconds before, following Pepper into his office. Before that, he had been showing Bruce the specs to some new clothes he’s sure will change sizes alongside the Hulk.

(It’s less about Tony building him something useful and more about Tony giving him so many concessions, treating him like a person, acting as if he was an essential part of the team)

The warmth on his chest is an old friend, by now, and suppressing the coughing fit is almost an afterthought. It’s hard to breathe, for a moment, but Tony’s distracted enough by his explanation that he doesn’t notice, and Pepper arrives just in time to take him away.

Natasha arrives not a moment later, just as Bruce is cleaning away the blood dripping down his chin. She sends him a look (soft and sad, _knowing_ )as she approaches. She doesn’t say anything, simply rests her hand on his knee, breathes along. As she leaves (just as Tony comes back, loudly complaining about stupid shareholders and their demands), she plucks a petal from under his left foot and presses it on the palm of his hand.

Bruce squeezes it, tight.

 

* * *

 

 It gets worse (slowly, steadily), but that isn't unexpected. He’ll wake up to the wheezing sound of his own breathing, the fluttering sensation of something down his throat. He’ll be talking to Tony and feel the thorns against his vocal cords, the leaves against his tongue. He’ll be coming down from the fight, the adrenaline still pumping on his veins (his heart rate barely under control), and as his eyes search for the red-and-gold figure, he’ll feel the taste of blood on his mouth.

(Bruce wonders if the Hulk will take control once the flowers become too much. He wonders if this is what will finally kill him, as opposed to bullets, aliens, radiation. As far as deaths go, this is a good way to die)

(he doesn’t really regret it)

 

* * *

  

It’s not that Tony doesn’t notice that something’s wrong, he does. Bruce knows that he knows (Tony knows that Bruce knows that Tony knows).

He sends Bruce worried glances, asks him about his health. At first Bruce tells him it’s just a cold—it’s not an excuse that could possibly last very long, but it’s hard to find any other diseases that have the same symptoms. When the cold fails, Bruce uses radiation as an excuse, then the Hulk.

Bruce isn’t sure Tony believes him, but that’s not as important as him not finding out the truth: the last thing Bruce wants is for Tony to be sad, to feel obligated, to stop being his friend.

 

* * *

 

 “Will you not do anything?” Natasha asks, voice low and serious. They’re sitting on Bruce’s kitchen, breakfast getting cold as the seconds tick by and Bruce does nothing but think on how to explain to Natasha what he’s feeling.

“Have you ever been in love?” Bruce asks instead. It’s somewhat of a rhetorical question, because he knows she can’t have or she’d _understand_.

Natasha shakes her head. Bruce nods.

“It’s one of the best feelings in the world,” he tells her. “It’s warm and comfortable. It’s happiness based on nothing but one of their smiles. It’s being reminded that there’s something _good_ in the world as you walk down a busy street because someone you saw is wearing the same haircut. It doesn’t matter that it hurts—just that it exists.”

(She smiles at him, but she isn’t happy).

 

* * *

  

The last time is a surprise. Not the petals, obviously: they’re a huge part of him, now (some days they’re _so big_ that Bruce can barely breathe, speak, live).

(It’ll be over soon, he knows).

Bruce’s sitting down on the common room, legs crossed, a book on a hand and a mug on the other. He hears someone approach, but doesn’t realize it’s Tony until Tony stops in front of him and plucks the book from his hand, putting it down on the coffee table.

“Natasha just called me stupid,” he says. There’s something like glee on his voice that Bruce doesn’t know where it came from.

“That’s… good?” Bruce croaks. Tony nods, suddenly solemn. He sits by Bruce and crosses his legs, mirroring Bruce’s position. Bruce sets his mug down, then looks at Tony. There’s a long minute of silence.

“I want to show you something,” He says at last.

Bruce looks down, to the thing Tony has just put over the sofa, between them: a single, bloodied rose petal— _and it doesn’t belong to_ _Bruce_.


End file.
